


A.M.E.R.I.C.A.

by jovialien



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jovialien/pseuds/jovialien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is just a kid from Brooklyn and really, if anyone thinks he is just some blushing virgin, that they know exactly who he is and what he stands for, they don't know Captain America's alter ego quite as well as they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for...  Adolescence

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing in Avengers fandom, mostly because there is so much amazing fic (and so many different Canon verses) out there it's kinda hard figuring out where to start. So, I figured I'd start at the beginning. Literally.
> 
> A is for...

**A is for... Adolescence**

It's not that Steve Rogers doesn't change much during adolescence, he does, honestly. Everything changes, just in proportion. His voice drops, hair appears where it should, and he grows up. He begins to notice girls more, the way they look and smile and smell, the way they are changing too and it's all perfectly fine and... proportional. 

It's just not like how it is for the other boys.

It's not like the way Bucky shoots up, his body filling out to become broad and welcoming. Steve's shoulders stop and stay slender, barely wider than his hips. His eyes remain level with the second shelf at old man Morrison's shop, whilst Bucky and the other guys can see over the top and into the back room where pretty May Morrison does the books, a pencil tapping against her smiling lips as she catches them looking. Steve's voice, whilst it finally smooths out (thank goodness), never quite gains that reassuring depth of his friend's. His chest remains too smooth, his ribs almost hollow, and even though his fingers gain the length of an artist's, they lack the firm grip of Bucky's. 

Steve can't help but compare them, side by side, their palms flat against each other as they lie in the dim light, his hands fitting inside of Bucky's like a girl's should rather than as equals. Maybe it would have been easier if he had been born a girl, a dame to stand by Bucky's side in the light, rather than a secret kept in the dark. 

It's Bucky who teaches him how to kiss, how to touch, how to keep his grip loose and work his fingers, how to draw the most pleasure from their growing bodies, how they can fit together and complement each other best. He draws Steve out slowly, unwrapping him like a present and never letting him shy away at the unflattering comparison between them. He never lets Steve feel ashamed or weak, unworthy or wrong, even when he can see that this means so much more to Steve, that this, a secret between friends, could be enough for him when it could never be for Bucky.

Bucky tells him of women, of their secrets, of how soft and gentle they are, of how they can make him just as happy, honest they can Stevie, who would want a calloused hand like Buck's instead of a soft and gentle stroke? They can make him happy, he will be just fine, he just has to try, find the right one, and it's not like he will ever lose Bucky, he'll be there until the end, just not like this because who would step out on any dame special enough to capture Steve Roger's heart?

Bucky spins stories out along with his touches, shares his tales of women, tries his best to help Steve find out for himself, but they don't want him. Maybe it's because of his weak form but maybe it's deeper than that, maybe they can tell, can see the way he looks at other men, at Bucky. It's not love, not the sort that can last a lifetime, but a shared truth, a hidden secret that only they know. It's trust and lust and a childhood fantasy, a shared awakening, that's all. Steve doesn't want dames. But Bucky doesn't want guys, just Steve. It's not the same, and they know that, but it doesn't hurt, doesn't eat away, it's just a fact.

They've watched each other grow, charting the changes in their bodies first with the curiosity and rivalry of friends, then with the interest and admiration of lovers, and by the time they are men there are no mores surprises to be had. Their childhood is over. There are no more growth spurts, no more excuses to be made, no hiding the fact that where Bucky goes Steve can no longer follow. Bucky is a soldier now, a man, a hero, and Steve is...

Steve is never going to be able to keep up with him. 

That doesn't mean he's ever going to stop trying.


	2. M is for...  Masturbation

**M is for Masturbation**

 

After the serum, after Erskine's death and the chaos of clean up, testing, assessments and needles and all the questions Steve finally gets some time alone. It's not much, a simple room, a shared bathroom, but it's space. Time.

The mirror on the back of the door is long, covering almost the whole length, and has damage spots on it and chips along one edge, but it is enough. For all the tests and questions and amount that other people have examined his body he has barely had time to adjust to the new face in the mirror, let alone the rest of him yet.

It doesn't take long to strip off his clothes, although they cling a lot tighter than he is used to. It's daft, but even managing to take off his top has to be done differently, his muscles too large to make it easy to cross his arms over each other but he manages. Mostly. The seam he can fix later.

Naked at last, he stands in front of the mirror and can't help the laugh bubbling up inside of him. Oh, if only Bucky could see him now. It's almost ridiculous, the sheer scale of his muscles. Running his hands over his chest, Steve giggles, feeling the way the muscles shift under his touch, trying to make them flex like a circus strong man. And his stomach, the ridges are _huge_ , Bucky had to work for months to get even half this, he is going to go crazy when he sees them.

If he sees Steve again. 

No, when, definitely when.

It might not be the same between them, Bucky might not want him now he is most definitely a man and can't be mistaken for a dame, but still, if he did, it would have to be different anyway, no way they could do some of the things they did before, he's gotta weigh about a ton now! But maybe he could carry Bucky, maybe...

Steve snorts with laughter, shaking his head at the image of himself swooping in and carrying Bucky off bridal style like some damsel in distress, although throwing him over his shoulder and hurling him to the bed could be fun. Or pinning him down and knowing for certain that actually, this time, he really can't move and isn't just humouring Steve, ready to flip him at the first sound of a wheeze or cough. 

It's weird, the stranger in the mirror with his face, mirroring his actions like a funhouse distortion, laughing with him and getting that same thoughtful and secretive look when Bucky crosses his mind. Everything feels different under his fingertips, firmer, smoother, hotter, like touching a stranger but at the same time being able to feel it too. 

Spreading his hands wide, Steve shifts them lower down his body, brushing over the thicker hairs now trailing down his stomach and to his johnson. It's odd, his hand still fits around it the way it always did, still covers his flesh easily, but leaves the head clear. His fingers feel thicker though, warmer, and his grip firmer somehow.

It takes just a few slow strokes to feel his body reacting, thickening beneath his touch, and it's almost too distracting to watch in the mirror, the sight so unlike what he is used to it's more like spying on someone else. Like watching Bucky, seeing his body roll and react to Steve's touch, his muscles tremble with the sensations. 

He would do this for Bucky perhaps, whilst they relearn each other, show off his new form and see what makes that look come into Bucky's eyes, that heat. Maybe... Maybe like this, watching his fist stroke along his length, his hips moving slowly to fuck into his own fingers. Yes, Bucky would like that. Heck, if Bucky doesn't maybe he can find someone else willing to help him discover this new body. It's not like some of the dames haven't been staring all day, a few of the guards too, and not just with jealousy.

Steve turns to the side, sending his reflection into profile and, oh, wow, is that his ass? It's huge! No wonder it was so hard to get his pants back on earlier. It's strange, to see actual _curves_ to his body, a shape rather than skin and bones. Muscles actually tighten and flex beneath his skin as he thrusts and he can't help speeding up at the sight, imagining what it would look like to see himself thrusting into Bucky or one of the guards outside his door right now, sliding into their body slowly, strongly, just like this. 

To be able to hold another man down, fingers holding onto hips, to be the larger one for once, to be able to take the initiative like he always wanted to, like Bucky asked him to. Oh he'd tried, but somehow it wasn't the same, to hold Bucky down when they both knew he could break free any time he wanted to. To never be able to be quite as forceful or go as long as Bucky wanted before his asthma would flare up.

Now, even as he speeds up there is barely a catch to his breathing, no hesitation to his thrusts. His cock is bigger, thicker than before, and oh, how it would stretch Bucky's lips wide to try and take it now. Just the picture Bucky would make, on his knees, his face upturned and hands held high above his head, trapped between Steve's fingers, and Steve able to hold his own weight completely now, even when his legs tremble with pleasure.

Or to feel Bucky's hands gripping Steve's thighs, barely able to cover half of their width now, to have a tongue sliding over the new grooves in his stomach and the firmness of his chest the way his free hand does now, fingers catching on his skin as it starts to sweat. Turning back to face the mirror again, it still shocks him to see the size of his body now, the way his face flushes red without the gasps of his asthma to accompany it. 

It's a surprise to feel how intensely his body is reacting to his own touch, skin new and sensitive from the transformation still, tougher in places but softer in others. The hair over his balls is thicker somehow, and each touch makes them tingle, their weight heavier against his fingers. He can't help but wonder if they would make the same sound slapping against flesh as they used to, or if now they would have the louder sound of Bucky's, if they would feel different to him...

Steve can't help the moan that escapes him as his orgasm builds, his voice still the same but the sound harsher, deeper, and the force with which he comes surprises him, his hand and chest covered even as he carries on stroking, getting every last drop out. It isn't until he is done that he sinks down onto the flimsy bed in the corner and laughs at the creak it makes trying to hold his new weight, knowing full well that it would never handle what he and Bucky used to get up to. 

Licking his hand clean, Steve grins at the taste and can't help giggling to himself. Despite everything else, at least one thing about him hasn't changed at all.


	3. E is for...  Erotica

**E is for... Erotica**

Steve Rogers isn't a prude, not by any means. Even when he could barely get enough materials together to draw, he still studied and watched the human form, and it wasn't as though Bucky didn't show him the occasional pin up girl. Hell, Steve had once redecorated one of their commandeered tanks just from the memory of one of the girls from his old show. So it wasn't as though art, even erotic art, was new to him.

Twenty first century 'art' on the other hand, was something of a surprise. To see things so blatant, so graphic, was something of a shock but not necessarily a bad one. The pornography was different, and honestly did very little for him, the mystery gone in favour of shock and close ups, and whilst intriguing artistically it was nothing. The art though, to be able to see such forms lovingly drawn and rendered, even when sometimes a little exaggerated, and freely displayed...

Even images that he would never have dared commit to paper for fear of being cast out are now just more art. It inspires him to draw again in a way he didn't think would be possible, sparking something alight inside of him that he had feared was still frozen. The images trapped inside his mind escape, freefalling onto the paper as easily as photographs now appear on the camera screen seconds after being captured.

It doesn't take long for the others to notice, admiration and compliments replaced by offers and poses. Natasha bares her skin without concern, no desire between them, just understanding. She is the only woman he has ever seen in such detail, and whilst he never touches, never shows the pictures to the others (no matter how much Stark may tease and bribe), he is grateful for the chance. Her skin, her curves, so different to his own provide a new challenge and a surprisingly easy intimacy without pressure or expectation, an experience that he treasures.

Clint is a study in movement, Steve fighting with the pencil to capture each stroke of tension and fluidity in his arms. There is something intoxicating about the strength captured in his limbs, the gracefulness of his fingers, the way they stroke over the bow and assess the arrows, the harnessed power even when he is still. Even after the drawings are finished, the images seep into Steve's dreams, Clint's hands wrapped around Natasha's curves, or more masculine, faceless forms, his grip as tender on flesh as on his bow.

Hulk is all bulk but with tenderness in his touch as he interacts with his friends, held back and controlled, whereas Bruce accepts easy touches and affection without care. It is the eyes that transfix Steve, both man and beast held within the other. The way he looks upon them all, with such guarded love and protection, it reminds Steve of Bucky and the way he would look at him, even across a crowded room. 

Man and beast, it is their eyes that Steve draws the most, their gaze heating his art, trying to capture their intensity and power, a shared trait whether hidden behind glasses or long and almost startlingly soft lashes.

Pepper poses too, in her own way, allowing Steve to sit in a corner of her office through one typical day at Stark Industries. She is dressed to kill, suited and stilettoed, and it is somehow more erotic than most of the spread bare ladies on the internet. The suit brings an armour to her lines, reminding him so much of Peggy and the other woman who fought (in their own way) in the war. Her moves are graceful, reminding him of the big cats, but without the deadliness of Natasha's strikes. Instead she is softer, less calculated, at least with her body. Her mind and tongue on the other hand are deadly and he watches enthralled as she cuts down arrogant engineers and board members alike.

Bucky had told him tales of women with power like that, women with the ability to quite literally bring men to their knees, to make them come with barely a touch or just a command. He can see her like that, imagines the men before her naked and supplicating themselves before her. Her power lies inside, not needing to bare her skin to be charged with desire and inspire want. She fills his pages, commanding and strong, helping him to surrender control when he needs to most.

Even Phil - Director Coulson - agrees to be drawn, his hands hovering self consciously over his scar, but then Clint is there, wrapped around him, his fingers spread wide over the imperfection instead. It shouldn't surprise Steve that they are inseparable even in this, their desire to make up for lost time filling the months since Phil's return from the dead. The drawing isn't graphic, their pants still on, just sitting up in each others arms, legs gently entangled, but the care and affection in every touch, in the way they look at each other, makes it the most charged thing that Steve has ever drawn and an honour to be invited to see.

Bucky is there in the books too, unaware but present just the same, of course he is; both incarnations of him mixing on the page, the wild tangle of the Soldier's hair contrasting with the slick control of Bucky's, warm remembered fingers pressed against cooler metal ones. He is always two people, never one, two figures side by side, but without the sense of unity of Bruce and the other guy. Instead they battle, fists and lips and hands struggling for control on the page, straps and screams and rage competing with lust and surrender. Sometimes Bucky wins, sometimes the Soldier, but whoever the victor is, Steve is never on the page with them.

He's not sure who said it, maybe Clint, maybe Bruce in one of his melancholy moods when the subject turns to lost loves, maybe even Pepper in one of those bittersweet moments after she and Tony had parted. They had called it a cliché but it had sounded just right to Steve. Better friends than lovers. 

Some things were the same even after seventy years. He and Bucky had realised that a very long time ago, slipping back into easy friendship without any hesitation or regret. It's only here, among his new family, that Steve has the chance to realise just how rare and special a chance that is, to be able to let each other go without pain or anger, just time to move onto a different path.

Maybe some day Bucky will come back to him, or maybe the Soldier will, but Steve knows whichever it is he will do his best to be what he has always been, a friend.

Stark on the other hand – Tony – is the only one who doesn't offer to be drawn, barely acknowledges when Steve appears in the workshop, and suddenly has urgent meetings to go to whenever he tries to approach the subject. 

It's Tony that fills the most pages though, his form a composite of imagining and fragments of memory, the look in his eyes one that Steve can only hope to see one day directed at him. Tony who replaces Pepper in the role of mastery over Steve himself, Tony whose eyes bear the heat of Bruce's, Tony's stained engineer's fingers that wrap around Steve's prick, Tony's arms that hold him tight, wrapped around his body with them in Clint and Phil's places.

The internet, magazines and videos, even his other drawings, they may all be more explicit, show more flesh, hold more fire and passion within, but to Steve, the simple sketches of Tony's hands are the best form of erotica he's found in this century so far.


	4. R is for...  Reciprocation

**R is for... Reciprocation**

Steve hadn't expected this. Really, truly, anything but this. It was bad enough that he had dropped his book, bad enough that Clint with his too clear sight had spotted what he had tried so hard to keep hidden, bad enough that that knowing smirk had filled his face, but this? Having Tony come up halfway through the very dignified and manly scrabble (there may have been tickling involved but really, even heroes have to have some weaknesses,) to get it back from Clint's too quick grasp, that was just the worst thing.

No, Clint distracting him long enough to allow Tony to retrieve the notebook from Clint and take a look at the contents, THAT was the worst thing. Ever.

“So you've been drawing me anyway, huh?” Tony was standing with his back to Steve but the book spread open in his hand might have been Steve's soul for how much he could feel Tony's stare. Clint took advantage of the lapse in attention to extract himself from Steve's headlock and vanish, not that either of the others even noticed.

“Tony, I know this looks bad, I-”

“Is this how you see me?” Tony turns at last, the book in his hands, held open wide on a double page spread. The pencil lines create the image of Tony reclining, his body half hidden in the sheets on an unmade bed, even as Steve leans over him, his features obscured by Tony's thigh and the hands wrapped in his hair. Their positions alone are all that betray what they are doing, the tension in Tony's arms, the cording of his neck hinting at the pleasure running through his body whilst the strong muscles of Steve's back speak of his focus and undivided attention as he worships Tony.

“Tony-” Steve can barely breathe, can't look as Tony flicks through the book, more pages of his hands, his arms, that smile he gets when he thinks no-one is paying attention to him, his lips... “I- I shouldn't have done this, or asked your permission, I know, I just-”

“Is this...” Tony's voice is quiet, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Is this what you want? Or just, y'know, is it some kind of art thing, 'cause I can understand the art thing, those pictures you did of Natasha and the others, I mean they sound like quality art, and it's all fine, we are an incredibly good looking bunch, proper model material, and you drawing is good, therapeutic, I mean, it's healthy expression, curiosity, all that, studying the human form, but uh, this, the whole, the uh-”

“Sex thing? Or the gay thing?” Steve guesses, a shy smile forming as Tony starts to bluster.

“Yeah, the sex thing, no, well, okay, both, that and the gay thing. I mean, I don't have any problem with the gay thing, Hell, the whole of youtube knows I don't have a problem with the gay thing, which is admittedly a part of why I didn't want to pose for you, one more picture of me without clothing gets out and Pepper will neuter me. But uh, I thought you were, I mean, there was Aunt Peggy and while I know you don't have a problem with Agent and Agent, but, well, forties and all that-”

“Tony, I, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I can destroy them-”

“No, I don't want-” Putting the books down again, Tony huffs out an impatient sigh and turns again, looking at Steve awkwardly. “Look, I may well be misreading this completely, and, huh, I guess what I'm asking is, if I've got this wrong, please try not to actually dismember me or anything-”

“Tony-”

“Look, just, let me-” Tony huffs again and runs a hand through his hair. “Oh fuck it.”

Steve isn't sure what to expect, but a sudden lunge and then lips against his and a hand snaking its way along his back wasn't it. He can feel his body stiffening at the sudden assault, resisting the urge to strike back and at the same time urging him to do something, anything, to make sure it doesn't stop.

Too soon, Tony pulls back, his hand quickly retreating as he looks up at Steve with, wait, is that an actual blush on his face? Tony _Stark_ is blushing? Over a kiss?

“So, uh, I guess I got that wrong, so maybe we could just forget about this, I can try and invent some actual brain bleach if you want, wipe the memory away, or maybe we can blame it on the booze, not that I've drunk any-”

He doesn't shut up, even when Steve surges forward and sweeps Tony up against him, kissing him fiercely and holding him tight until he relaxes and kisses back. It's a mess, neither of them particularly graceful in their surprise at finding themselves here, Steve holding too tight and Tony scrabbling to figure out where to put his hands. It's nothing like he imagined, nothing like it was with Bucky, but it's so real and imperfect and everything he needs, and it can't be real, can it?

By the time Tony pushes him away for air, they are pressed against the table and the drawings are being crushed and pushed aside but Steve doesn't care, he is too busy mapping the real thing with his fingers and tongue.

“So, uh,” Tony gasps out as Steve tries to make his way down Tony's jaw, nuzzling against his skin and beard, “just to get this straight, you're not.”

“Not what?” Steve murmurs against his neck.

“Straight.”

Laughing softly, Steve shakes his head and pulls back, looking into Tony's eyes. “I'm not straight.”

“Good, that's uh, that's good, me neither, although I think I covered that already, I guess technically I'm Bi, but it really depends, and- Oh, fuck _me_...”

“All in good time.” Pausing with his hands on the hem of Tony's shirt, Steve looks up and presses a fingertip against the thick scars where the arc reactor had been. The shrapnel is gone, the gap it had left healed over, bone and muscles slowly knit together again and now except for a slight unevenness in his sternum you would never guess it had been there, but the scars were something Extremis couldn't erase completely. “Is this... Is this why you wouldn't let me draw you?”

“Huh? Oh the scars?” Grinning, Tony strips off his top and grabs Steve's hand, guiding his fingers over them. “Nah, well, I mean it's not the most photogenic of my features but hey, it reminds me I actually have a heart and that's got to count for something right?”

Steve can't think of a good reply other than to lean down and press a kiss against the still shiny and too new skin in the centre of Tony's chest before running his tongue over the ridge of scars surrounding it. They're beautiful, a masterpiece of their own, a war wound that tells of an incredible battle fought and won, and he can't wait to be able to draw it too, to finally learn every inch of this beautiful body and-

“So wait,” Steve asks at last, pausing with his hands spread wide over Tony's hips, their foreheads pressed together. “If you don't have a problem with it, then why wouldn't you pose for me then? What didn't you want me to see?”

The soft huff of laughter is warm against his skin, and the kiss that follows gentle. “It wasn't THAT part of my body that I was afraid of, captain oblivious,” Tony whispers, and Steve pulls back, looking into his eyes and there he finally sees it.

“Oh.”

“Oh? That's all you can say, oh? I admit, well, mostly admit, that I've had the biggest crush on you and was terrified I was going to spring a boner at even the thought of being naked around you, and that's all I get, oh?” Laughing, Steve pulls him close and grins.

“How about the feeling's mutual?”

Nodding, Tony grins, and gives Steve a wink. “Well then, why don't you draw me like one of your French girls?”

Laughing, Steve gives up and pushes the book off the table to be able to push Tony back onto it properly. “I know that reference.”

“Good, hey, watch out for your drawings!”

“It's okay,” Steve whispers, ducking his head down to lick and nibble a trail along Tony's neck. “I can always draw more. Besides, I think it's time I had a chance to study the real thing.”


	5. I is for...  Impotence

**I is for... Impotence**

It's the laughing that sets Steve off, anger and embarrassment flushing through him hotly as he drags the sheets from the bed with enough force to almost throw Tony off the other side. 

“Hey! Wait, Steve, I'm sorry, I just...” With that Tony dissolves into giggles again and Steve hesitates, torn between the urge to go lock himself in the bathroom and the urge to pull Tony up by his hair, plunder those lips and prove all the ways he is still a man even if, if...

Wrapping the sheet around his waist, ashamed of his body in a way he hasn't been since he stepped into a shell in a Brooklyn basement, Steve settles for crossing his arms across his chest and putting on his best Captain face. He waits.

And waits.

And waits...

Finally, after what feels like forever, Tony finally stops laughing and takes in the look on Steve's face, softening his own. “Steve, really, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, I-” Another giggle sweeps through him and Tony clambers across the bed, unperturbed by his own nudity and less than perky form. “Look, Steve, come here, please? Pretty please? Pretty pretty pretty please with one of those godawful cherry pop tarts on top?”

Steve can feel his face twitch, a smile threatening to break out, and wishes he could court martial his own lips for mutiny.

“Steve, let me explain, okay? Just, will you come sit down, sit, down, here, see,” Tony pats the bed encouragingly, “right here, it's nice and soft, you can unclench some muscles, you're giving me cramp just watching you.”

Reluctantly, Steve sits on the bed but refuses to meet Tony's eyes, instead resting his hands on his thighs and staring straight ahead, not down. Nope, not going to look down.

It's not just his lips he would like to court martial tonight.

“Steve...” Tony gently places his hand over Steve's and squeezes. “You were lying on a Manhattan sidewalk with ninety percent of your blood outside of your body like six hours ago, it's only understandable that you may have some, uh, _blood flow_ issues tonight. I'm sorry I laughed, really I am, it's only that I've never had this happen to me.”

The glare Steve shoots him could make a rampaging Hulk go sit on the naughty step, and Tony laughs again, but with an edge of panic this time.

“No! No, I don't mean like that, Hell, you know my record, party hard, drink like a fish, I'm just lucky the girls I _didn't_ sleep with make more money selling sleazy stories than they do stories about how I passed out on them, seriously. And come on, you think after seventy two hours without sleep I'm capable of much, then really, it's a good thing you started dragging me to bed after forty-eight or we would have had this situation come up WAY earlier than this-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts at last, frustrated and flushed pretty much everywhere, his skin on fire with shame. “What are you doing?”

“Explaining, communicating, you know, talking things through, no misunderstandings in the bedroom, helping!”

Bringing his hands up to his face, Steve leans into them heavily. “Please stop trying to help.”

Another laugh makes him shift again, wondering if he could make it back to his own room without any of the others seeing him. 

“Steve.” Tony sighs, sliding off the bed to shuffle on his knees, creeping his way between Steve's legs. “Will you look at me?” Lifting his head a little, Steve peeks over the top of his fingertips, a slight grin pulling at his lips as Tony shakes his head fondly and peels his hands away. “Will you really look at me. I mean it.”

Steve finally lets the smile escape, letting Tony take his hands and entwine their fingers. 

“No, you're not... You're not looking, you've got this whole artist's eye thing but you're not seeing. Look at me Steve.” Tony brings their hands up to brush over his temple gently. “I'm going grey. I've already messed up my heart, and it's even money that my liver isn't far behind. I have, not one but two of, the very definitions of high pressure jobs, and as for my diet, if Dum-E doesn't poison me first one of these days I will manage it myself with a four week old cup of coffee. I'm not...”

He hesitates, looking uncharacteristically fragile and Steve can't help but twist their hands to brush the backs of his fingers over Tony's cheek, savouring the contrast of skin and beard.

“I'm not a kid, I'm not in the best of health, and I sure as Hell don't have your stamina. Not that I will ever stop trying, but really, twice a night is gonna be pushing it without a good few days to recharge in between, and that really defeats the object, twice one night with three days off is sex twice, or once a night for four nights is sex four times, it's obvious, the math doesn't lie-”

Steve can't help it, he laughs out loud, a release of pressure inside him so sweet he can't help leaning down to kiss Tony. It's soft and gentle, no promises, no pressure, just there, and when he pulls back Tony is smiling back just as softly.

“So, honestly, I guess I was laughing because... Because I was relieved. So shoot me, I was relieved that maybe you had some flaws too and it wasn't always going to be me letting the side down, trying to keep up with a perfect, I mean really, really, _perfect_ specimen like you-”

“Tony, stop, just...” Sighing, Steve reaches down and almost manhandles Tony up into his lap, his lover easily sliding into a familiar position, legs wrapped around Steve's waist. “You don't really worry about all that do you?”

“Nooooooooooo...” Tony ducks his head to rest against Steve's neck and he starts to worry at the skin there, almost a nervous habit more than an attempt at seduction. “Old man's saggy balls, maybe...”

Steve starts to laugh now, unable to stop, even when Tony pulls back and gives him his best mock hurt face, lip thrust out and pouty and just too adorable. “Old.... Man's...” Steve can't even get the words out, laughing so hard he's almost weak with it and unable to resist as Tony leans forward and tilts him down to lie on the bed, pinned down.

“You can laugh, you're the one who is going to be sucking on old man balls, whilst I get to have your gorgeous, pert little ass in my face all the time. Me and Agent, the envy of the old folk's home with our two young studs...”

Steve can't breathe, tears starting to stream down his face, but it's good, it's so good, it's terrible and gross and wonderful and completely imperfect.

“...farting our way through meals and getting away with it whilst you have to hold it in like a good little boy-”

Steve cries out as Tony presses down on his stomach, almost forcing what little air he has left out of him, before sliding down and blowing a raspberry into the taut skin, the sound surprisingly high pitched.

“Tony!”

Regaining control at last, Steve flips them over on the bed, half dragging them back up the sheets to rest on top of Tony, carefully holding up his own weight. 

“So I guess paying you to mow the yard in tight shorts is out of the question?”

Rolling his eyes, Steve settles in close and kisses Tony gently before sliding to lie alongside him, suddenly exhausted. He's right, his body is pretty much shutting down fast to help him recover from the day. The line across his stomach may already be the soft and shiny pink of an old scar, but no matter how good the serum is he still needs to give his body time to heal. Snuggling up against Tony, he smiles softly.

“You don't have to pay me to do the gardening, I'll do it for free.”

“Excellent, JARVIS? Where do we keep the lawnmower, do we even have any grass around here? Never mind, I can have some shipped in, J, order me up-” His voice muffles under the pressure of Steve's hand and finally stops, pausing long enough to lick a stripe over Steve's palm.

“Eww. Child.”

“Pensioner.”

They lie there quietly, just settled together, until Steve finally speaks. “I would you know.”

“What?”

“When you're an old man, I'd, uh...” Steve breaks off with a blush but Tony grins, getting it anyway.

“You don't just want me for my body then?”

Steve thinks about it for a minute. “Well, maybe ninety percent your body. No, wait, eighty?”

“Just eighty?”

“Got to leave room for the genius, millionaire, superhero part too.”

Tony shrugs in agreement and shifts to lie on his side facing Steve. “I'm not...” Pausing, he brings his hand up to trace over Steve's bicep slowly. “I'm not just in this for your body either, you know that right? It's not... This, it's not just, just sex, or friends with benefits, I'd... Even if you were not perfect, or broken, or the serum stopped working and you went back to being able to fly with just the aid of a kite-”

Steve can't help poking Tony just underneath his ribs for that one.

“-I'd still... You know.”

“I know.”

“Sickness and health and all that stuff.”

“I love you too, Tony.”

“In potence, or, you know, impotence-” 

Rolling his eyes again, Steve pulls Tony into his arms and holds him tight. “Shut up and let me get some sleep, and in the morning I'll show you who's impotent.”

“Is it Clint?” Tony asks with a grin, “please, let it be Clint.”

With one last kiss to shut him up, Steve reaches over to turn out the lights.


	6. C is for... Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more serious again now...

**C is for... Chance**

“You still love him. Don't you.” It isn't a question, the phrasing too definite, the tone too weary, too resigned to the answer to not already know what it is.

“Yes.”

“Even now you've seen him, even now you know, for sure, he's not who you knew, he's not yours any more?”

Steve sighs, his shoulders slumping at the knowledge, the sharp reality twisting through his gut and tearing into him. The man he loved is gone, not completely, but enough that it isn't fair, to Steve or to him, to think of him as that person any more. It's not him, he's gone, it's over, and yet...

“Yeah, I do. I know, I know he's not the man I knew, but he's in there, it's still – he's not Bucky, I know that, but he's not the Winter Soldier either, both of them are gone, but James, something of him, he's still in there. And I... I still love him.”

Tony slumps too, almost deflating alongside Steve as the words hang between them. Neither of them is facing the other, both staring straight ahead as though the answers will appear before them. And maybe they are, on the other side of the glass separating them from the rest of the world, the harshness of their reality.

“I understand,” Tony says softly at last, “I do. You should- You should go to him, I won't- I won't let it get awkward or anything, the tower, it's still your home, and... And when he's fit again, his too, you should bring him home with you, where else would he fit in, seriously, we've got everything a recovering brain washed soviet spy could need, another ex soviet spy to compare notes with, a brainwashed by a higher power buddy to relate to, Bruce to help with any anger issues, you to gel on the whole 1940's bit, it's- It's the right place for him.”

Steve nods slowly, but frowns, the words not quite making sense. He's sure he's missing some key piece of the puzzle, but he's too tired, too bone deep weary, aching with the bruises and scars and emotional blows that have brought him here. He's lost, unable to do anything, unable to help long after adrenaline and pure dumb stubbornness have kept him going, kept him moving for too long, and are not quite ready to release him from their restless grip.

He's out of place here, in the too bright, too clean, missing any of the day to day scuffs and scrapes of an active workplace or home corridor. Even for a medical bay, it's too clean, too new, the lingering smell of plastic wrapping and sterile wipes filling the air vents. The whole place is too shiny, right down to the strange guy who greeted them and, after ensuring that Buck- James – was taken care of had revealed a strange obsession with lanyards.

'The playground' seems far too lighthearted a name for a place like this, secret and still, hidden from the world, so different from the playground where they first met. But Coulson claims it is safe, has personally vetted every single member of staff allowed within its walls, and with Billy double checking even Captain America's ID it's oddly soothing. 

Steve can't help fiddling with the lanyard around his neck, hanging too high up his chest and covering the star where it still just about shines through the layers of mud and blood and dirt saturating his uniform. He's been fighting and running for too long now, too many endless days, and whilst his reflected face may hide a multitude of the sins he has committed to get here, his clothes tell the story as elegantly as a poet.

On the other side of the glass in front of them, the world is quite different, a steady flow and thrum of medics at work, moving more like a single organism or colony than a team of individuals. They circle the unconscious figure on the bed and focus on his body whilst his mind rests for a brief moment of sanctuary, safe and peaceful. The memories can't find him here, so deep under, they have made sure of that, they promised. No more fighting, no more struggling between two lives, two realities with just one thing in common, one thread to bind them together.

Steve.

“I don't...” Steve manages to force out at last, his brain trying desperately to hold on, but the adrenaline and energy thrumming through his veins almost drowning it out in the urge to just stay alert, to keep watching. “I don't understand. Why would it be awkward, he-” Steve winces. “Oh, Tony, your parents, I'm so sorry, I didn't think-” 

The snort of humourless laughter from beside him makes Steve jump.

“You know what, that really hadn't even occurred to me yet. Huh, not quite sure what that says about me. Yeah, okay, so that's not exactly fun but I've had some time to get used to the idea and you know what? It wasn't him, any more than it was Clint to tried to send us all crashing into the ocean. And I still let that fucker eat all my cereal and do weird things in the air vents. So, y'know, I can probably get past this.” Rubbing his nose, Tony shrugs, his hand muffling his words a little as he carries on.

“At least I know for certain what happened now. For a while after Afghanistan I thought maybe Obie had ordered it or messed with the car, and that was almost a relief. When I was a kid, I... Dad drank like a fish and drove like a maniac, I always thought maybe...” Sighing heavily Tony lets his hand drop to his side again. “It was a long, long time ago. About three lifetimes really. Shit happens, and it sucks, but we move on.”

Steve nods, wondering if he could be so accepting about it if their positions had been reversed, before a thought strikes him – or at least, drifts past his brain.

“If it's not that, then what-”

“Oh for God's sake,” Tony snaps at last, his weary composure vanishing into defensiveness, his almost default posture. “Don't play dumb Steve, it doesn't suit you. You really need me to spell it out? You still love him, I get it, I do, you guys have all that history, all that soulmates kind of shit that Hallmark would love to put in a movie, do you have any idea how ridiculously perfect an ending this is? You both end up in the same century, decades after believing the other dead, finding each other again, if I believed in magic or God or miracles I'd blame them for this, 'cause you know what? The math, for once, Steve, the math makes _no sense_.”

He breaks off, unable to find the words for a long moment, before a weary sound escapes him. “He was your first Steve, your best friend, your- Your One. I'm just...”

Steve feels sick, his brain finally catching up with what is going on, and the adrenaline surging again but inwards, turning his stomach to snakes and making his chest _hurt_ with fear. “You're- You're breaking up with me?!”

“What? No, I mean yes, I mean- I'm letting you go, Steve, he needs you.”

“And you don't?”

“That's irrelevant, I'll be fine, I-”

“And what about what I want,” Steve whispers at last, gaze still fixed on the glass but no longer seeing what lies beyond it, his attention all on the reflection alongside his in the window, two ghosts hanging on to the last threads of this life, this moment together. “Does that matter?”

“Of course it does,” Tony snaps, “that's what I'm trying to tell you, you don't have to worry about me, you can go back to Bucky, James, the Winter Buck, whatever he is now, you can have him, you should be- You should be happy Steve. You deserve it, so much more than anyone I know.”

Including himself, Steve thinks, his heart beating desperately to overcome the sick feeling inside him, to have come so close to getting everything he wants only to lose it again at the last hurdle...

“You'd do that for me,” Steve says slowly, still processing the thought. “You'd let me go, watch me be with someone else, in your home, you'd do that... Because you think it would make me happy?”

Steve turns at last, finally turning his back on the frantic surgical room to look at Tony and truly take him in. The crumpled surgical scrubs he is sporting are still damp and stained in places, though more with oil and sweat than blood, his flight suit long since discarded so he could help. 

Steve had watched him, through the thin sheet of glass keeping out the useless people, had watched him work side by side with the English girl who looked barely old enough to be out of school, yet had taken control of even Tony Stark with a terrifying ease. It had been her idea to bring Tony in, to have one expert for the cybernetics whilst she tried to heal the body and bring them back into sync after far too long without care.

And Tony had done it, straightaway, without even a second of hesitation. Despite the middle of the night call from a frantic Steve after a long three weeks without a single word, despite the long flight in the suit, the unfamiliar equipment and completely unique individual in their care, he had more than stepped up. 

Despite thinking, with every action that he took, that he was one move closer to losing Steve.

“Tony?”

“Yeah,” Tony shrugs, folding his arms across his chest and scrubbing a hand through the too long hair on the back of his neck. He looks like Hell, his face carrying the lines of exhaustion and worry that Steve's lacks, his eyes a little too large in his face, and the slightly too lean look that lets Steve know he probably hasn't been eating or sleeping properly since Steve left, chasing after a vague lead with nothing but a rushed goodbye. “Don't get me wrong, it's gonna suck, but... You deserve this, Steve, you really do. And I won't stop you.”

“Tony,” Steve breathes softly, stepping closer and finally closing the gap between them, the first time they've been in contact in weeks, and gently raises a hand to rest along his face. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“No,” Steve smiles, almost laughing at the sudden memory. “You once asked me to really look at you, well now, I need you to look at me. Not the childhood hero, none of Howard's stories, or stupid comic book happy endings. No Captain America. Just me. Steve Rogers. Okay?” Taking a deep breath, Steve smiles sadly. “Yeah I'm a punk kid, Tony, but I've seen war, I've lost my family, my whole life, I've lived most of my years stuck in the cupboard-”

“Closet,” Tony corrects automatically, just as Steve knew he would.

“-and most of all, most importantly, I'm an idiot.” Tony laughs, just once, almost embarrassed at the sound.

“No you're not.”

“Yes, I am. No, really, listen to me. Seriously, I've been a five foot nothing wet rag of a kid who still figured that getting his blood all over someone else's knuckles was gonna change the world. An idiot who thought that his weak ass presence on the front lines would be anything other than a liability to the rest of his unit. I'm a moron who got into a gigantic metal _coffin_ in a basement, and trusted a very nice but probably a little bit mad German scientist and _Howard Stark_ not to kill him, which, believe me, after seeing his flying car demonstration, you'd think I'd have more scepticism than that.”

Tony actually smiles at that one, and Steve relaxes a little bit. “I'm an idiot who jumped out of a plane into a war zone with nothing but a tin shield and prop helmet and not even a trace of a plan beside 'get into building. Get Bucky out of building. Get back to a friendly base' in his mind. Seriously, I'm impulsive, and crazy, and dumb, really, truly, magnificently grade A dumb.”

“I'm also the luckiest, most blessed idiot on the planet, ever. I survived a war that killed boys and men with decades more experience alike. I picked fights in back alleys and on crowded battlefields with the same reckless determination and I had my back watched by the same guy through it all. I drowned, and I froze, and I thought, this is it, this is all I am gonna do with my life, just as I was getting started, and it was not enough-”

“And then I woke up.” Steve moves closer, letting one arm wrap tentatively around Tony's waist, pulling him closer. “Luck had decided she wasn't done getting her nickel's worth out of this fool just yet. She gave me yet another chance, to do good, to live, to make a difference. And not just that, she gave me a new, crazy, messed up family to keep me safe. And now she's given me another chance to do what I should'a done seventy years ago and save my best friend too.”

“You have, Steve, you did, he's gonna be okay, I swear, we'll do everything-” Steve shakes his head quickly to shush Tony, and lets himself lean in now, pressing closer and feeling the warmth of Tony's body start to seep through, slowly spreading life back into his bones. 

“But more than all that,” he whispers now, these words only for Tony, not for whatever cameras and surveillance and who knows what else they have tucked away here. “So much more than all that, she gave me you. A cocky, can barely breathe without being sarcastic, know it all-”

“Genius,” Tony corrects grumpily, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and Steve can feel the tension slowly start to fade from the muscles under his hand. 

“Who forgets to eat, sleep, and heaven help us all, bathe, for days on end, who creates useless toys and life changing devices with equal enthusiasm. I have you, and... And you love me, not in spite of my sexuality, not putting aside any of your own needs just to be with me, not just a for now thing, but so much... Who can never say it, but loves me enough to do everything he can to help me, even if he thinks he's going to lose me in the process.”

Sighing, Steve finally lets himself wrap around Tony completely, enveloping him in a weary hug, and can't help the soft murmur of contentment that escapes him as finally, slowly, as though afraid it isn't real, Tony holds him back. 

“I have you, Anthony Edward Stark, and that makes me the luckiest man on the planet. You say the math doesn't lie, that chance doesn't make sense when it comes to getting Bucky back and it must be fate. Well I say what are the odds of me finding you, my real One, seventy years after I died?”

“I can probably work those out for you if you give me some time,” Tony mumbles back, his face half buried in Steve's chest, and just like that, Steve knows that luck is giving him yet another chance, another roll of the dice that comes up good. They have a lot to talk about, a lot to get through and past, and it isn't going to be easy fitting whatever man Bucky becomes into their lives, but they will find a way, they have been given this opportunity, and Steve intends to make the most of it.

Chance may favour the brave, but right then, in the arms of the second man he has ever loved, and the last one he intends to, it feels like she also has a soft spot for Steve Rogers.


	7. A is for... Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this last chapter was a little late, sudden unexpected therapy session happened, a.k.a. why can't real boys be as easy to figure out as these ones?!

**A is for... Affection**

The one thing that never fails to surprise and delight Steve about his new found friends is the affection and acceptance that is freely offered and taken between them. None of them has had exactly what could be called idyllic childhoods, all have been hurt, abandoned, or generally starved of that simple nourishing contact and love at some point in their lives. 

With this giant tower, and their own private floors to offer sanctuary, no one would have been surprised if they all lived separate lives, just neighbours in the same apartment block. Instead, the easy touches and companionship make it all too easy to relax and let go, to just bask in the feeling of safety and home the tower offers. 

What had been most unexpected though, was how, once he finally began to trust it, James had embraced it, and them, in a quite literal sense. It was as though after being starved of touch for seventy years he was determined to make up for lost time.

There have been bad days, too many to count, and it had taken a long time to even coax James out of his room for more than a hour at most. Even then, he would just sit and stare, watching them all without reaction, as though unable to understand how to respond to them, silent as a shadow. Steve would manage to get a few words out of him, but even then it was stilted and controlled, no violence or anger involved, but nothing else either. 

It had been the least human member of their team who had broken the ice, but then again, Dum-E did have a way with people.

******************************

It was just a routine check on James' arm, him sitting without interest in the workshop, his arm resting on the workbench whilst the scans finish checking it for changes. In the weeks since James had been released from the Playground this had become part of the routine; a weekly scan with Bruce to check his body, and one with Tony to check his machinery. Whilst much of life in the tower was haphazard, the checks they at least tried to keep to as strict a pattern as possible to make it easier on James.

So, Steve would always sit in the corner, sketching or reading, Tony would run the scans - as well as maybe two or three other projects simultaneously, because, seriously Steve, if he could design upgrades for the Helicarrier in the middle of one of Coulson's briefings and _still_ pass the pop quiz at the end, then he could monitor a routine check up without pausing his other, real, proper work, of course he could.

(Quite when Coulson had started instituting a quiz at the end of briefings, complete with gold star stickers for right answers, Steve really couldn't remember, but on the plus side, it did wonders for both Tony and Clint's attention spans. Plus Thor really loved the stickers; apparently Asgard for it its wonders had nothing quite like them.)

It was routine, one of the times when Steve could really just not focus quite so heavily on watching James and just breathe for a bit. It was nice. Predictable.

Except for that time.

“Hey, what-” Steve looks up sharply at the sound of James' voice, hand instinctively reaching for his shield, then stops. And tries hard not to laugh.

Dum-E had been charging the last few times James had been down, or busy with a task, or generally not in the same part of the workshop as them for the scans. But now, there he is, right in the middle of the workshop face to- Well, camera, with James. It is the first time James has actually met any of the bots – or possibly the first time that Tony's attention has slipped enough for Dum-E to slip past whatever blocks Tony usually puts in the way to keep them apart.

And now Dum-E is there, and looking at James' arm with what could only be described as a curious air, examining it before darting in to poke it gently. 

“A little different to yours, huh?”

“Dum-E, leave him alone, go on, shoo, don't you have work to do? I know you have work to do, you know how I know you have work to do? Because you always have work to do, and you always run off and leave it for someone else, don't you. No, cut that out!”

The whine that comes from Dum-E's servos as he lowers himself down to the height of the bench was almost pitiful and Tony sighs in mock annoyance, even as Steve tries his best to fight back a smile.

“Oh, is that how it is, you ungrateful brat, come on- No, you can't hide behind him, I can still see you, you know, I- Hopeless. What are you? Hopeless.”

For a moment then, it looks to Steve as though James is almost smiling, or at least his lips twitch a little, as Dum-E tries to sidle behind him. The bot is oddly certain that a human form maybe half his size is enough to keep him safe and hidden from Tony. (It isn't.)

It is just a split second of movement that makes the very idea of a smile fade from Steve's thoughts as Dum-E reaches out to poke at the seam of scars and metal on James' shoulder. The prod is innocent, playful, but James couldn't know that for sure, besides he hates being touched there, hates being reminded of it. 

Steve can see Tony's hands moving, fingers spreading wide in fear, a silent warning, even as Steve curls his fingers around the edge of the shield and shifts in his seat ready to move, to protect Dum-E and James, because it's just too dangerous, too much, what if-

Instead, he freezes in place as something completely unexpected happens.

For the first time since he's come back, it's James who reaches out, who actively pursues contact with another being rather than the steady round of herding and cajoling they've been reduced to. It's such a simple thing, his flesh hand reaching up to the metal claw and grasping it gently, but to Steve it's a miracle.

“Yeah, that's it buddy, it's a bit like yours, you see that?” James says, nodding to the hologram over the bench, still not moving his metal limb. “But it's part of me, it's attached and-” At that Dum-E pulls back before rolling round the bench to look at the arm more closely, methodically examining every inch, rotating his camera and claw as he goes. “What, what's he doing?”

“At a guess, looking for your release catch,” Tony says softly, a little less tense, but still considering, thoughtful as he watches his creation interact with the arm. “He's used to me, my armour, which comes off. In the early days he used to have to help sometimes, so he's looking for the right way to get it off, which, believe me, is a big improvement from when he used to try to rip it off.”

“Oh.” Looking at the hologram again, James hesitates. “May I move- Are we done yet?”

Tony nods quickly, and starts to shut the projection down, saving the data. “Yeah, sure, all looks much the same as ever, you can take off now. See, Dum-E, this is what happens when you start poking your nose in, you're scaring the nice man off-” Tony looks up from the workbench and stops, staring transfixed at the scene. “Huh.”

Steve can barely breathe as he watches James lift up his arm and hold it out so that Dum-E can check it properly, not with the sullen obedience he displays when it is necessary for some check or other, but with an almost enthusiastic sweep. “See?” He says to Dum-E, eyes focused solely on the bot, the rest of them blocked out for now. “No catches. It stays on, like yours does.”

Dum-E completes his own assessment then considers for a moment. His sudden scuttling off to the other side of the workshop takes them by surprise, before he sweeps back in, proudly bearing something in his claw.

A wrench.

James laughs, a short bark, aborted almost before it begins that seems to surprise him as much as anyone else as Dum-E points the wrench at one of his own joints and starts to spin it.

“Okay, okay, so your parts come off. Bad example. I get it.” Reaching out, James passes his hand over Dum-E's arm, assessing the bot in return. “So, what does he do around here?”

“Him?” Tony says dismissively, but Steve can hear the slight edge of approval in his tone that always creeps in whenever anyone calls Dum-E or JARVIS he instead of it. “He makes a mess, that's what he does. He's supposed to be an assistant, a helper, but he's useless at it. He likes to clean but doesn't actually know what dirt is so makes it worse and- See? Dum-E, no, the nice man does not need his arm polished, really, stop that, or at least use something clean to begin with-”

“It's okay,” James says quietly, watching with patience as Dum-E finally locates the cloth on the bench that they use to wipe up anyone excess oil from the metal plates of his arm, rather than the filthy rag covered in what looks like engine grease that was cast aside on the floor. “See? He's got it now. That's it.”

Steve can do nothing but watch as James sits patiently and lets Dum-E wipe down his arm, slowly, paying attention to every single plate and piece. It takes much longer than their checks usually do, Tony drifting back to his projects and rants at JARVIS but still with half an eye on Dum-E. But still Dum-E cleans, and James sits and talks to him quietly, offering gentle encouragement, and Steve, Steve watches.

When the arm is clean to Dum-E's satisfaction, he offers James back the cloth, which he takes with a small smile. “Thank you. I- Tony?” Tony looks up from across the workshop, nodding. “Is there anything- Does Dum-E... How do you clean him?”

Tony grins, wide and honest and something in Steve's chest lightens at the sight. “Him, oh he's a menace, a nightmare, really, you don't want to know. But, since you ask, come on, Dum-E? Grab your box, yes, you know that one don't you, honestly, he's going to expect this every time you come down here, you know that right? He's going to be a spoilt bot, and, thank you Dum-E, that's it, okay, let's see what we've got here...”

Steve watches as Tony goes through the contents of the small toolbox, labelled Dum-E in black marker on the side, and explains to James how to use each of the oils or tools to check Dum-E over, how to spot minor bumps or repairs that need doing. Dum-E is almost preening at the attention, pulling things out of the box and handing them to James, before Tony would take them back and put them in the box, only for Dum-E to steal them again.

They spend the whole day down there, working together, Dum-E whirring contentedly between them, his whirs and beeps speaking of his affection and gratitude for each touch. It's there in James' touch that Steve sees it start though, the gentle strokes, almost hesitant at first, becoming stronger, more certain, the talking becoming stronger, following Tony's example and describing what he is doing at each stage. It's the most Steve has heard him say in this century.

And it is just the start.

***************************

It began with Dum-E but didn't end there, and now each member of the team had found their own way of expressing their affection towards their new member. 

For Bruce, it was an open invitation to sit and take tea together, the ritual of it somehow soothing to James, an opportunity to share space without conversation or pressure, just a shared experience. There was a different tea each time at first, James resolutely drinking every one, until Bruce began to read the tells and tailor them more towards flavours James actually liked, even before he himself could work out how to identify, let alone verbalise, what he was experiencing. 

Food had followed suit, sustenance starting to be replaced by experience, Bruce's gentle hints helping James identify the difference between like and dislike, bitter and sweet, all over again. There was none of the pressure of SHIELD dietary suggestions, no fussing over waste (which Steve had to admit, he still couldn't quite help), just an offer and acceptance and a shared interest. Even so, Steve could see the pride and tenderness in Bruce's face when James had declared quite unexpectedly one night that, no, thank you, he did not like carrots.

For Clint, it was simply treating him no differently to anyone else. James was subject to the same teasing, the same pranks, the same ridiculous sense of humour and snark as the rest of the household. There was no hesitation, no treating him as thought he might explode or the Winter Soldier might return if pushed too far. Instead, James got suction cup arrow attacks, invasions from the air vents, limericks stuck up on his door, and photos taken at the most awkward moments Clint could manage. 

At first there had been little or no reaction, but the day Clint had stormed into the kitchen, his hair bright purple, Steve had known it was working. For all that Clint had started ranting at a laughing Tony, (who was of course denying all knowledge, but may as well have been crying wolf for all Clint believed him,) it was the small smile on James' face that gave the game away.

For some kids, love is a hug and a kiss, but for others, it's making life Hell, and Clint certainly fell into that category, Steve knew that. Discovering that James might be able to give as good as he got? That was great. 

That it took Clint three weeks and a full on prank war campaign, including an incident where all his underwear ended up hanging on the outside of the tower like Tibetan prayer flags, to figure out he was blaming the wrong guy? That was priceless. 

The shock on his face had lasted for about ten minutes before, finally, he had wrapped an arm around James' shoulders and simply said that, really, they should combine forces, as this could be the start of a beautiful friendship...

Thor told stories, completely at random. He would throw himself down into a soft spot and consider the mood before starting on one of his great tales. There were tales of loss, and love, tales of war and ruin, but also tales of hope and renewal, jokes played as children in the great halls of Asgard, the beauty of the rainbow bridge, of the world itself, and the stars beyond. There were great hunts and feasts and famines all wrapped up together, Thor's voice rumbling gently as he talked, the soft thrum of it seeping into bones as well as ears.

Then James began to talk back. It was just a simple thing that started it, Thor's story this time about a scrape Loki had gotten into as a child, picking on someone twice his size (quite literally) and who didn't care in the slightest about whose son the tearaway in front of him was. Thor had swept in (of course) to try and save his wayward brother, but had ended up needing to be saved in turn.

Heimdall had not been amused.

James had just listened at first, but when Thor stopped, laughter rumbling through him as he concluded the tale with how they had both been confined to the palace for what in human terms would be a month in punishment. (Of course, Loki then caused so much chaos the palace staff had ended up turning a blind eye to their sneaking out, if only to be rid of them for a few hours!)

Hesitantly, James had offered his own tale, just a few brief lines, just a story of Steve as a kid trying to pick a fight with a guy who was actually a boxer. It had ended with Bucky getting the black eye meant for Steve, and both of them running away, almost laughing too much to escape as the close call sunk in.

It was not a great story, it wasn't told well, but Thor smiled as though he had been given a great ballad to carry home with him. After that, James had offered more stories of his own in return, most of Steve, but some of the Soldier, of pain, and death, and solitude, that almost made Thor weep, but somehow seemed to take a little more of the weight from James' shoulders each time. 

Bruce offered silence, Clint laughter, but Thor offered a soothing voice, and always a gentle ear to listen whenever James should need it, openness and warmth in Thor's eyes every time.

Natasha, as always, shows her affection very differently to most people. 

Whilst others might hesitate at sparring against an enemy who has almost killed them (at least twice), Natasha never shrunk from the challenge and in return, never held back in the ring. Blow for blow she matches James, always trading insults in Russian, never English, taunting him. She fights him hard, brings him to the mat as often as he pins her, and grins when he snarls back in Russian in turn, surprise on his face at the words, but a smirk on his lips.

She teaches him too. Russian art, Russian music, a whole culture, a background he slept through, never told more of than the bare minimum needed to complete his missions. It isn't Bucky's culture, it's the Soldier's, but it is also James', and she makes sure he knows what good there was as well as the bad, how history shaped the world he was exposed to, but also how much more there was beyond his experience.

She even dances for him, her grace and poise making her a natural as she assumes a ballerina's stance, moving softly to the music surrounding her. In James' eyes, Steve can see reflected a wonder, a stirring in his soul that they'd feared would never awaken again. Natasha cannot make false promises, does not believe in love, but she shares beauty and fire freely, openly, and through it shares what she can of herself too.

Sam offers a context, a way of judging the progress and grief of a soldier against others. He offers an escape, just a few times a week, to take the time to talk of his feelings without being watched, without anything coming back to Steve or the others. He gets to hear, to see, and to understand that he is not alone. The memories he holds of the war, of the Howling Commandos, begin to make more sense than the strange tangle of images and sensations now. The tales of others help him assign words to the sensations and emotions, to recognise them for what they were. Fear, tension, boredom, relief, terror, they begin to make sense again. 

The Avengers are teaching him much of what Bucky had already known, but Sam is helping him make sense of the soldier too. Somehow, just being able to put a label on it, to know how to articulate the rest of the memory other than a recitation of detail, makes the whole thing easier to handle. To be able to awake from a nightmare and know that the pounding in his chest, the roar of his own breath, has a name, is not him breaking but rather starting to heal again, is sometimes enough to push the fear away again.

They have all done so much to make James feel at home, to help him start to rediscover himself, and if that was all they could have, all that could be there for them in this time, it would be enough. But they also have Tony.

It's Tony who encourages James' fascination with the bots, Dum-E (at Tony's urging) introducing James to his 'brothers', Butterfingers and U (then promptly getting jealous when they began to get attention too), and generally handing him everything and anything in the workshop that might be of interest. 

It's Tony who shows him how to strip down an engine, then rebuild it again, a piece at a time. Tony teaches him how to work with the metal, how to know when to clean and when to grease, and when to take the fire extinguisher out of Dum-E's grip unless you want to look like a ghost. They don't talk as such, no swapping of stories, no jokes, no sharing of culture or experience, just them and the machinery. It's all practical.

Even when James turns up in their bedroom one night, eyes too wild and frantic as he tries to find the words for the thoughts stuck in his eyes and throat, it's Tony who does the practical thing. Steve tries to soothe, tries to comfort, whilst Tony simply grabs the water from the bedside table, thrusts it at James and tells him to drink. Then to breathe, in, out, just like Tony. The body is a machine, he mutters, you need to take care of its needs and it will take care of you, and see? Doesn't that feel better?

It's Tony who, instead of hesitating and asking for permission or forgiveness, simply grabs James' hand and drags him towards the bed, hustling him into the middle and helping get the pillows right, even as he bitches about how he's going to choke on too long hair all night. Steve can only follow, dumbstruck, as James takes up a straight line between them, even as Tony carelessly throws an arm over his stomach and threatens to let Dum-E loose with the etching drill if James wakes him.

Tony arranges for the clothes that appear in James' room, the books and games and even honest to God toys that simply sit waiting for a response. The fact that the Captain America bear gets moved from a shelf to the bed, and from there sometimes into Steve and Tony's bed, is a subject of great teasing but never without affection from Tony.

That James makes the migration too is somehow never questioned.

It isn't sex. There is no threesome, no soldier sandwich or any other of the oh so witty suggestions Clint makes. For all that Bucky was into dames, and the Soldier was denied all desires, it's taking time for anything of that nature to return to James and no body intends to rush it. So, for now, it is sleep, and gentle touch, and the nickname of 'The Winter Toddler', whilst slightly too mean to be really used, still strikes Steve as somewhat apt for it is like having a child sometimes. 

It isn't every night. It is just the bad nights, those nights when the chill seeps too deep into the bone to be shifted by anything other than companionship. But it's enough.

And when Steve wakes in the early hours, and turns to see Tony and James sprawled on the bed, limbs wrapped ungainly over and under each other, with the simple love and closeness of brothers shining through, he couldn't ask for more.

Captain America may be the man with a plan, but Steve Rogers? He's just enjoying whatever comes his way. After all, it seems to be working out okay for him so far.


End file.
